The advantages of being (in a) single, with a guide and a pull rope

yeah, husbands can be nice but they tend to take control of the boat

you know, even the nicest ones, it's just part of, well, being a guy in this world

even with a wife, yes, he had the audacity to call me "the wife" which is said with 

....such disdain by guys, as if we are subhuman or something, or certainly not capable

of making our own decisions, even for such small matters as to what kayaks to rent

yeah, and i'd like a guide, too, for when the clouds scud across the sky and the wind picks up

and there is so much water and sky and we are far from port and this is no fun anymore.

yes, i'd like a single kayak and a guide, and the husband can come along if

he would like, grumbling a bit, i see him smiling as we cross the water, the wide

water that in places is like a mirror, the sky is literally water and sky 

and water and sky before a small ripple breaks a cloud into haze and the wind

picks up and it's a long way back to the small rocky beach where we launched which

is now covered in small wavelets as the tide has risen and the current is strong

so yes, I'd like to be towed back to shore across the strait and watch with 

some (small) amusement that my darling husband, the husband, is working so hard to

keep up with his petite wife, watching the pull cord, taut then slack, dipping, then 

rising towards the small pebbled shore.

 

As if I knew this pond

I knew this pond, the dense forest bordering

its edges, the distant cries and yelps of children

splashing into the water, shocked by the sudden cold on their skin

I knew

this pond, the dappled sparks of sunlight reaching

deep into my retina, the cries of the children echoing

resonating in my ear canals, gradually diminishing

as if I knew

this pond, but it wasn't, was it, it wasn't the one

where I arrived at dusk, barefoot, my hand in his,

the moon was bright that night, and the water lapped

at the shore, that pond

was here, the forest was the same, the cries of 

the children had simply been there earlier that morning

while I was still up changing bedsheets in their rooms

the ponds are all the same aren't they

the sunlight glimmering on the water, each ripple catching

a different beam, each beam bouncing back into the 

memories of a 

différent pond, but aren't they all the same

 

The injustice of being sick on vacation

the injustice

how dare I call it that, the injustice of being sick on vacation

when true injustice surrounds us, we have only to open the New York Times

to see injustice oozing from the mouths of our Supreme Court injustices

the injustice for the toddler shot at a Seattle fair just yesterday

oh, injustice you are everywhere and yet looking past the Kleenex box

towards the tranquil bay, does the seagull know injustice or

does the rain gently pattering outside on the railing

know injustice or does she wander freely with the clouds first

towards the east, over the hillsides and open water

does injustice only reside with us, who have strayed so far from

the natural world that we cannot even know what justice is,

or injustice

the injustice of being sick on vacation, the endless coughing and sneezing

the nose rubbed raw, would nature call these injustices or only the 

weary and spoiled traveler in her warm clothing, her white skin and well-educated

mind

she dare not call this an injustice.  

 

This is British Columbia

this is what i imagined 

a white yacht bobbing through channels

endless water, rain pattering 

bleached logs 

stacked onto rocky shores

peaceful

far from it all, what happened in Seattle

would not happen here

this is why we are here

 

the Dalaï Lama in Victoria

His gaze upon us at the restaurant calmed my sense

of not being fully here yet, in Victoria, the place not having 

captured me as I had expected,

jarred by the fencing on Paragon Street seeming to cage

in the homeless and their scattered trash and belongings

just blocks away from the Empress Hotel where one spends

one hundred dollars for high tea

isn't this the way it is in big cities, all of them

the Dalaï Lama gazes down upon all of us who land

somehow in this restaurant with an empty table

after having searched in vain for hours

he somehow knows that I needed this calming here

surrounded as he is by prayer flags and colorful wall

coverings, the serene voice of the Tibetan waitress

I can almost feel the cool breeze blowing off the Himalayas, I

can almost touch his cheek with my

fingertip

 

"When there is no Internet at the hotel" - the Reading

I just walked right up to the clerk

aware of his look of guarded concern, no doubt fearing

a complaint but wasn't it too early to complain about anything

this glorious morning

in Seattle, Washington, the sort of morning where 

happenstance results in a handwritten poem waiting to be released

like a bird from an outstretched hand

yes, it was the internet that didn't work, a might have been complaint that

turned into a golden gift of freedom from the screen

the feel of the pen held between the fingers, the noticeable

drag across the hotel pad found under the TV

I just walked up to the clerk, his gaze transforming to fascination

as I presented the poem that needed to be spoken aloud

to him, the clerk, that early morning when only one 

other woman was gazing intently at us as I read

this one that needed air to breathe

to remind us all that we are free, after all

we have only to remember

(The poem that I wrote is on a previous blog post https://le-poeme.blogspot.com/2026/07/when-there-is-no-internet.html)

 

Trois baguettes, trois amis

pourquoi pas

cuisiner trois baguettes cet après-midi, 

meme s'il

fait une chaleur à crever,

que le four, 500F pour 15 minutes

serait trop trop trop pour 

cette petite cuisine

parce que j'attends trois amis

ce soir, trois baguettes pour

trois amis, ils en auront tous

besoin d'une.

 

When there is no internet at the hotel

 

When there is no internet 

my iPad is simply a lamp

the screen shedding light onto

the reality of our dependence

the unopened books, the 

mind spinning free unshackled

from pre-digested content

when there is no internet, I 

notice the pen and paper  beneath 

the TV screen and consider what it 

might feel like to write,

not type, or even whether the 

magazine in my bag, the one

about how no one reads anymore,

might be read this morning

or maybe I will look out the window

of this sixth floor and watch the City awaken

yes, I'll do exactly that, unplugged

the world beyond the screen is 

waiting for me to notice.  

Joy

Joy can be found on the floor of the library

playing a musical instrument from across the sea

where I had watched their dark skin melt into the dusk,

the shine of the rising moon glistening on the ball

rising high into the air, whether from a well placed kick,

a header, they rushed towards the sea to meet it while

he settled onto the cool tiles of the library floor,

only feeling their joy the way that babies do

through intuition not mind

 

They weren't there yesterday

 

they weren’t there yesterday,

when the sun was shining

the seedlings had finally emerged in the vegetable garden, small

clods of earth pushed aside, the oh so delicate

first leaves opening themselves, so innocently,

like wide-eyed babies

to the hellish, unseen night time voraciousness of the roly-poly,

those brown segmented crustaceans, monsters

their sharp teeth devouring that which was created with love

they weren’t there yesterday, having only arrived,

suitcases in hand on a night train, I am reminded that

sunshine can be followed by a devouring darkness. 

The young man in the hoodie

he might have been homeless, sitting

hunched over on the bench on the elevated train platform

face hidden, facing down, coffee in right hand

i sat next to him uncertain seeking clarity

was this really where you caught the train

weirdest platform in an unknown town, no one

else around, he might have been homeless

but he was on the platform that morning maybe

going the same place as me

I asked him if this was the platform, this weird

elevated space well above the usual place where 

one would catch a train

he lifted his head and responded, hoodie in place

this young man is a writer and seeker,

so tired from moving his friends into their new place

maybe his eyes were mostly closed, i'm not sure

because i'm not sure that i saw them on the platform

but the train arrived, we left the elevated platform 

to board and i'm not sure i ever saw his eyes

but they were wide open.

 

The Culprits

 

the delicate new leaves disappeared overnight

sending my spirits deep into the soil from which they had emerged

were the birds the thieves in the late afternoon heat

there being no evidence of the slime of a slug or snail 

an oppressive heat called me to water the sadly defrocked beans

in hope of resurrection, somehow, and from this baptismal font 

scrambled hundreds of them, their crepuscular bodies scurrying 

forth from the depths, the beans passageways providing a quick

exit from the drowning stream.

evil little roly-poly's, what shall be your fates

this oppressively hot summer day when there is no such 

thing as a prison cell with tiny bars that can hold you all

in the darkness of the cool night you will find yourselves

lured away to the softest and sweetest delicacies, the fragile

edge of a lettuce leaf, and find yourselves too full to 

wander astray for the delicate new leaves of 

my newly planted beans

my spirits will soar again

Finding my own voice

 i'm not sure if he frowned inside

 at the Capital Letters, the lack of form

each margin at the right hand side,

seeming friendly enough, but the Librarian 

T-shirt tipped me off in the end, the 

"knowing how to do this" but maybe

that's not it, he may not have said inside

    but i cannot know, maybe it's my own

frown inside because i have never studied

after all, never read the books or wrote the 

    prescribed poems from my past, no need

        to dig earlier than a few moments ago

a beetle hitchhiked on my shoulder into this very room

    life is so exciting.

The ABC's of a baby's life

A

Baby

Carried in his mother's arms

Decided that the grass looked much greener over there

Excited to Explore, to

Frolic, to 

Grasp each blade of Grass

Happy to be free of parental restraint

In the delirium of the expansive mind

Jolted alive by new experiences and feelings, flying like a 

Kite into the stratosphere, 

Leaving us, the elders 

Minding our small concerns

Not even noticing the miracle of the ladybug

Or the spider's web 

Possibly not even our own amazing humanity, our

Quivering hearts, only in capturing the wonder in his eyes do we

Remember that we, too, are alive

Suspended in this universe of glory and stars,

Traveling through the Milky Way, while 

Undulating waves of grain still

Visible on distant plains, a

World away

eXcept in these baby's eyes,

You can see the world reflected, 

Zooming in and out, the world will be his.

Learning a language

we learn a language to understand another way

       of what and why do we care

if we can communicate with someone who lives across the sea

        in a place where trains run on time

                and politicians care about their people

no such places exist yet the lure of language persists

        as if in learning, we’ll open our hearts to some 

unknown place that yearns to be discovered

        between the conditional and subjunctive for

in between knowing and confusion we search for 

         some version of the truth 

the writing coach

 he greeted me with a generous smile in spite

of my tardy arrival, rushing in from the heat

my poems tucked under my armpit

as if to hide them from his critical eye

my tardiness swept aside, he inquired 

so gently what i hoped to accomplish here

with him, and the security guard sitting so close

did I have to tell him, too

he was not there to pick apart the words, themes, rhythms

and so i responded

very carefully, whispering the question

whether 

these poems tucked under the armpit

will breathe better once released. 

Suspended in space

I dare not wash my hands out of  respect for the spider 

Suspended in her web in my washbasin. 

Is she wondering, like me, what that next step will be, the entry

Into an unknown which may lead to better horizons, or not,

For her,  the freshness of the outdoors, for me, more time inside pondering words,

Syntax and shape, capitalization and story telling.

When night falls and I mount the stairs to brush my teeth,

Will she be there to accompany me on our journeys

Or shall I travel alone.

 

Look closely

Stop.

Look closely now that you are home

In the quiet, far removed from the vibrancy and drama

Of the big city, the sounds and smells, the landscape that penetrated 

Every sense, every cell the moment you stepped outside.

Stop.

Look closely now at the details of the seed head, the dandelion

That insisted on growing in the garden, unwanted, but persistent.

She has so much beauty in her radiating delicacy, each seed waiting

For the perfect lofting breeze to send her skyward, towards

Other gardens waiting for her perfection, even in their not-knowing,

Stop.

Look closely at the clover and the violas dispersed amongst the 

Grass, so carefully tended for the grandchildren who care only

To feel the cool, wet green between their toes.  

 

My Friend, Billy

How could I have known that this lanky boy with a big smile

Would end up as an artist, his imaginings transforming into the crazy folding

Of paper forms decorated by the randomly falling ink droplets emitted

To the timing of humming motors and interlocking gears.

How could I have imagined that this lanky boy would reappear in my life

As a grown man, someone I would want to spend the whole day and more

Wandering past giant-sized photographs the American worker dwarfed within

The bowels of a jet engine, or leaning over silicon wafers in a semiconductor fab.

And loving it all, every minute.

I could never have imagined this as the train clacked its way down from Boston to NYC,

The thing about imagination - anything is possible, we must

Only show up for it when it does.  

 

My half-brother is now my brother

 We had never had times like this, 

I'm panting to keep up with him on this 

strenuous bike ride through the Park, stopping en route to listen to 

West African music, the party goers likely preparing for the upcoming France-Senegal match

There was a lake off to the side, we passed by the restaurant and circled back

To find it together, a generous nod to our time in Senegal, decades apart.

This man is no longer my little brother, the 13 year old that lost his father

Too young, sobbing in the pews of the Unitarian Church in Chicago.

Only yesterday, I opened his front door to gasp at the sublime interior, filled with antiques

The product of an artist's eye, the work of this half-brother, who is now a full

Fledged brother, no longer the "kid" who worried about losing his siblings when

The patriarch passed on so young.

Let us not pass up any more opportunities to be together, to ride and to walk together

In spite of challenges that inspire deep respect and admiration.

We had never had times like this, but we will have them again.

The visit

 

My eyes drifted towards the wooden planks, 

Out the window at the pool cover, sagging from 

The leaden weight of snow, a brutal winter.

Her voice flowed over me like the sea, a myriad

Of pebbles of memories rushing towards me,

The accumulation following decades of silence. 

A frozen friendship waiting to be thawed, 

A seemingly urgent rush of words without a comma, 

Nor the briefest semi-colon, my gaze shifts to

The new appliances, the ones that will help sell

This majestic home that may still echo with 

Children’s cries, small running feet along the 

Floorboards above, the creaking of mattress springs.

Finally I turn my face to her, the jowls of age

Softened in the telling, our eyes meet as we rise, 

The chairs scraping, the wheels of my overstuffed 

Suitcase rolling towards the door.

Walking the Freedom Trail

Just follow the red painted line, or the one of red brick,

And it will tell you a tale of our country, from the Old North Church,

Where lanterns were hung, of bullets and fallen men, 

Let this path take you to Faneuil Hall where they met and schemed,

Wear a good pair of shoes for crossing bridges, stepping carefully 

Over uneven cobblestone or lumpy grassy fields dotted with 

The gravestones of those who trodded the paths here over

Two hundred years ago.

And when it all blurs into one long tangled history,

Find another vibrant coffee shop or quiet garden to rest,

Hoping that in two hundred years this trail will still guide

Us towards knowledge, that the threads and tears of today

Will not have shredded all that we have endured 

To date.  

 

MIT and the Isabella Gardner Museum

They say the people who work there don't like it, the obtuse and the acute angles,

The irregular hallways and jutting windows, this is the replacement for the

Boxy WWII army-style architecture where I studied so many years ago, 

Grey walls replaced by shiny metal surfaces and glossy displays of the latest in 

Tech and science propelling us into the new world order

Where I hope to catch a glimpse of a twirling skirt and the sound of 

Spanish guitars, feel the warmth of human connection in music,

Breathe in the humid air and sweet smell of mock orange,

Delight in the ridiculously gaudy blossoms of the foxglove

Luring us towards death, we refuse, ricocheting between the

Accelerating pace of artificial intelligence, and the places where

We only wish to rest amidst the blooms and paintings of the 

Romantic era. 

I could see rainbows through the mist at Harvard University

 I remember the rainbows in my eyes looking across the mist,

My son racing from rock to rock, blue sweatpants darkened by moisture,

The glee of a three year old, soon followed by a little sister who was not yet

Toddling, only crowing from the stroller in the tandem of happinesss.

I remember the clouds and the rain, the long winters, the money struggles of 

Small children, graduate student and postdoc salaries, if they call it that, 

Yet we prevailed, and they grew up.  

I remember the banners of Veritas, the coming back to this place, 

The double vision of the past, with me in a crimson graduation gown, now

Looking across a cloud, through the mist in my eyes, to see her in a crimson 

Gown from atop the stairs of Widener, where we all learned to grow up

Somehow and move into the world, the mist still in our eyes as we look

Forward towards uncertainty, finding an occasional solid rock beneath

Our feet, and carrying the solemn joyful memories inside our hearts. 

Popping a balloon in an MIT strobe lab

 I didn't seem to be able to count to three

Until the second go-around, then smiling widely into the microsecond 

Flash, the balloon was burst and recorded for all history.

it was, to be here, so many years ago

In this place, that brilliant minds and timid personalities

were birthed into the dazzling world of science,

This is the place where there was no time to blink,

The balloon of knowledge was bursting in front of us

We had only to grab it, to chew at its corners and

Inhale voraciously.

I'm counting to three now, and ten and 

Twenty, to forty-five years gone by, still staggered

By flashes of brilliance resonating within these

Hallowed halls. 

The best coffee, the best friends

 No, I had never used a frother, and been offered the use of the car, and

Been accompanied on a custom bike to experience the green, dense forests 

on the way to White Pond, 

No, I don't recall feeling so cared for and so pampered,

My taste buds rejoiced when savoring the simple meal we shared.  

Yes to Paul and Rebecca, yes to Amaya, we will see each other again!

You are all so beloved, my heart is so full of joy. 

Warm in your little Concord home, so cozy, with the fancy

"Authentic polyester" throws on the couch and chair, the balcony

Looking out onto towering fir trees, 

The beautiful flowers on the table greet me this morning, even

More special that they were for Paul for his 15 years teaching.

And I smile when I spot the intricate spiderweb woven  under the 

Small stool, no doubt the small resident feels the same. 

On the road again

Maybe I only think that I like to be home,

A self-described home-body, my friends scoff in disbelief

Since I flit from place to place, Japan in April, a week in 

Santa Monica, and how gazing out at the plane which will fly

Me to Massachusettts, vertigo be damned.

A chat on the bus with a Chinese scholar, another,

A Mexican father with his children, as we wait for the gate

To open, why not watch the last half of The Matrix

And what a thrill to see my friend waiting for me at Logan,

Some 42 years after we met on an Amtrak train.  

Why not travel all the time, actions do speak louder

Than words.

On the road again.

 

The last morning together

She never smiles for the camera but I caught her in that last moment

Of being together, in a cozy bed, under a cozy comforter, with her Mimi.

That's me.

And the little one to the side, a moment before he started trying to lie on top of her,

We were all so peaceful, smiling, happy, in those moments before I had to say good-bye

For now.

Why does my heart ache so when I have to say good-bye, knowing that I'll see them

Again under sunny Colorado skies, so soon, even,

But that moment when she smiled, he clutched his new robot toy, the

Moment before they started squabbling over contested purses, 

His with two colors, but smaller, hers, bigger but missing the seahorse

Which she had placed in her new Fanny pack.  

She smiled and so did I, my heart prematurely aching for the many

Miles soon to be between us. 

 

And then there were two

There were two, after all, big sister with crocheted purse

And a little brother, who was usually in the shadow of his big sister.

We heard him, though, his small voice filling the empty spaces

With reverberations of protest and demands, the compelling voice

Of a three year old.

There were two, after all, a second smaller crocheted purse, in 

Two colors, the masterpiece of a beginning artist

Trained at the knees of the Master 

There were two, after all, two plastic bunnies fought over

By two siblings, there were two, after all, two parents who

Raise their eyebrows in disbelief at their good fortune,

The endless challenges of two, there are two, after all,

Two sides to every story.  

 

Crocheting for Barbie

She wanted me to crochet her a sweater in multiple-colored yarn 

But we settled on beach outfit for Barbie, multi-colored with contrasting bows

Using yarn for beginners, the single strands for the clumsiest fingers.

She wanted to learn, struggling to hold the right yarn tension between pointer

And thumb, her hands unsure how, I assured her that it took me many many

Many hours to master, so we settled on threading the yarn around the crochet hook

As my more experienced fingers held the yarn for her.

Each successful stitch resulted in the broadest smile, the greatest accomplishment

Ever for the both of us, this lazy afternoon after kindergarten, before the 

Demands of washing hands and eating dinner.

Deliriously delightful.